Tough Luck At One Hard-nosed Florida Facility, Young Men Get A Last Chance To Avoid Prison, And A Life Of Crime.

August 21, 1988|By Beth Rhea of the Sentinel Staff

BOOT CAMP — WAKEUP CALLS BEFORE dawn, endless hours of sweat and exhaustion and harassment, life at attention, lest some keen-eyed drill sergeant catch you slacking off. An unenviable fate, to be sure, but to some of Florida's young men, boot camp looks positively appealing compared with the alternative.

The boot camp is a voluntary, pilot program at Sumter Correctional Institution, 70 miles west of Orlando. The inmates, all with their first adult felony conviction, have been given their last break: They must either make the grade at Sumter, or go to prison, where they've all been sentenced for one to 10 years. For most of these men, the choice is easy. But making it through Sumter is not.

3:50 a.m.: In the halls of the dormitory, empty but for a pair of boots in front of each door, four officers pace slowly, watching the clock. Dressed in brown uniforms and shiny black boots, they are young, strong and ready to pounce.

At the stroke of 4, a screeching whistle pierces the air. Fifty-six young men are jolted awake.

It's no surprise this 10-month-old program is called ''shock incarceration.''

''We want to shock the offender into the realization that crime is not the way to go, and that prison is a harsh penalty to pay for their actions,'' says Bob McMasters, with the state Department of Corrections.

More than a third of all inmates admitted to Florida prisons in the last year had been to prison before. The point of the boot camp, which has graduated 110 inmates, is to teach first-time felons, from age 14 to 24, that they don't want to come back, and don't need to.

The inmates are put through a grueling 90 days, which, if they graduate, take the place of years in prison. Says Maj. Evon Colchiski, director of the boot camp: ''When they get off that van, it's a real shocker. They think they've got the world by the tail. Real quickly they learn they don't know anything, and they don't own anybody. Real quickly they learn who's in charge.''

At least some do. One-third of those who start the boot camp don't finish. 4:30 a.m.: It's dark, the grass is wet and the mosquitoes are hungry. Two lines of weary inmates trudge outside.

On the field, the inmates spread out in their platoons. Those wearing gold and blue caps stand in front, greens and reds in back. The color of the cap indicates how long the inmate has been in the camp -- veterans in gold. They stand in white T-shirts and blue pants and begin with a one-minute stretch. Then 25 jumping jacks, running in place, 25 push-ups, 30 leg stretches . . .

Suddenly, for no apparent reason, an officer in the midst of the group tells one inmate to drop to the ground again. His push-ups are not over yet. The officer demands 50 more.

Slowly, laboriously, the inmate begins again. After only three, he stops, struggles to continue, stops again. His body sinks into the wet grass, exhausted. The officer doesn't move. He waits in silence, and finally the inmate presses on.

For many of the inmates, boot camp is the first time in their lives that they haven't called the shots. They grew up playing by their own rules; the program aims to prove that playing by society's rules is often both wise and required.

''Most of these boys have never been pushed in their lives, and it's my job to push them,'' says Andrews. ''I'm going to push them as hard as I can and as far as I can, so I can get them to at least try.''

Behind all the screaming and sweating and endless push-ups is an effort to teach self-esteem. Only once the inmates respect themselves enough to succeed at Sumter can they be taught to respect the people (and property) around them. ''This individual's going to learn he can do a whole lot more than he thinks he can do,'' says Officer David Smoak, one of the toughest officers in the program. ''They tell us they can't do 25 push-ups, and we'll tell them to do 50 or 100.''